His Hands
by sweetashes21
Summary: His hands saved me. They pulled me from the rushing currents. They pounded life back into a heart it had long since abandoned and then held it together afterwards. His hands were always saving me, because his hands always had a way of loving me.


Disclaimer: I own nothing blah blah blah

Bella's POV, post Eclipse. You can assume whether or not it disregards Breaking Dawn. I chose to ignore that ending.

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_After years and years of living, she begins to realize life with him would have been more than she'd ever dreamed._

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His hands always had a way of holding me. Just like he always had a way of looking at me. His eyes would peer onto me and travel across my features; Touch me without contact, warm me without heat. In the most simple, innocent…intimate of ways, his eyes would look at me and they would see me.

On several occasions I found myself yearning to see what he saw. For days on end, I wanted nothing more than to look in the mirror and see the potential, the greatness, the reasons he saw when he looked at me.

His eyes always said more than his voice. If ever I questioned the validity of his words, the sincerity or seriousness of his speech, I'd take a single, fleeting glance at his eyes and there I would find the answers I sought. Sometimes, it would be within my reach, dangling at arm's length: his perception of me. I would search for those points in time, so that for once I might be ready for it, able to hold on and catch a glimpse at the 'me' he saw.

Maybe it was walking on the beach holding his hand or maybe it was in warm sodas and radiator fluid. But now that I think about it, maybe it was just him.

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His hands always had a way of embracing me. Just like he always had a way of protecting me with his companionship. Whether it be from those with malevolent intentions; others with selfish endeavors harmful on my behalf; or my own masochistic tendencies (both equally in physical and emotional aspects). He always had a way of harboring me securely within his hands. I wish I appreciated it when I had the chance.

Over the last, give or take, 100 years, I've come to realize that we all make mistakes. But our biggest mistake of all is neglecting to admit to those slip-ups in decision making. We stand too tall and proud to ever admit to the wrongs we create, the advantages we take for granted, and the hurt we establish.

The mistake that tops my list: Never telling him thank you. Not just a "Hey thanks for fixing my truck" or "Thanks for the soda" but a "Thank you for putting me back together. Thank you for loving me despite the damaged goods disclaimer. Thank you for continuing to see a reason to stick around even though I never did."

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His hands always had a way of nourishing me. Just like he always had a way of crystallizing a smile on my face. Even in moments of paramount despair and increasing hopelessness…he breathed life into me.

Seeing him was the sun rising after a dark, stormy night and hugging him was giving in to the gravitational pull my earth felt towards his relationship between us was more than natural. We were cosmic, he and I.

Being with him would have been painless, easy. I laugh to myself sometimes because I look back at my 18 year old self and scold my ignorance to the fact that even if being with him was a challenge, even if it were to hold obstacles and blunders, it always would have been worth it. He was always worth it, no matter what I chose to see, believe, or more-often-than-not, chose to ignore. The breath of fresh air that encompassed the two of us was all I really needed.

If I could, I would shed a thousand tears for the heartbeat I gave up, the oxygen I exchanged for bloodlust, the chords of muscles beneath warm skin I surrendered for marble arms to hold me. But I can't, because at 18, I could only see what I wanted instead of what I needed. He led me to not only survive, but thrive: to realize and appreciate. He always had a way of sustaining my happiness and betterment. He anchored me delicately in his safe harbor. And disregarding my every attempt to cling to the psychosis I craved (for hearing that voice in my head and phantom hole in my chest was, apparently, far better than giving in to health), he healed me.

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His hands always had a way of surrendering me. Just like his heart always had a way of setting me free.

No one knew me better. No one ever will.

There were moments he knew to hold on with every teardrop of strength and selfishness and sacrifice existent in his being. In those moments, he also knew he wasn't reaching and grasping for his own sake; he was holding on to me, for me. When I look back, the moments of my long, repetitive, and persistent life tend to blend together. All memories and moments fade into a blur of one big 'once-was', except for him. His instances in my life remain. Minutes free of anguish, seconds without fear, hours of care-free happiness. Days, weeks, months of perfection gone without notice, taken for granted. Stolen glances and forgotten embraces. Broken promises of years to share.

A lifetime of clarity that could have been…should have been_._

All are moments I feared to lose. Now they merely, yet significantly, haunt my sleepless dreams. Above all moments with him that I carry close to my eternally paused heartbeat, I cherish those when he knew to let me go. He knew everything about me. But more than knowing how to nourish, embrace, and protect me, he knew _when_ to set me free. And he knew how to love me.

No one knew me better and no one ever will.


End file.
